


thimblerig

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A lot of fucking lying okay, Both to oneself and to other people, Clothed Sex, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Doublethink, Dubious Consent, Duplicitous Martin, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Manipulation, Standard Elias, Uninformed Consent, Violation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 17:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Martin attempts to distract Elias.





	thimblerig

Thing is, he can’t just go up and proposition Elias. Martin’s not a particularly forward person (as three years of silent pining after Jon will attest) and if he does, Elias is sure to realize there’s something amiss immediately. Which means Martin has to approach this carefully and, crucially, _sideways_.

            He makes sure to start bringing Elias tea several weeks before any distraction will be necessary. And at first, that’s it. Elias raises an eyebrow the first time, and Martin blushes a little and mumbles something about making tea for everyone. After a few days, Elias seems to accept getting tea shoved at him without question at random times. Then Martin starts _confiding_ in him.

            “I’m worried about Jon,” he says, pushing a cup of tea into Elias’s hands. “I just—d’you really think we should be sending him to the Unknowing?”

            “I have every confidence in the Archivist,” Elias replies.

            “Yeah, I mean, obviously, me too,” Martin agrees in a voice that he pitches to sound just a bit _too_ forcefully agreeable. “But he _is_ the Archivist. If something _did_ go wrong—he’s the last person we’d want to lose, isn’t he?”

            “Great rewards require great risk,” Elias tells him mildly, sipping at the tea.

            Martin sighs heavily. “I just don’t want him getting hurt,” he says miserably, and it’s easy enough to say that, because it’s true. Elias makes a noise that might be construed as encouraging, and Martin judges it’s time to leave.

            “Um, thanks for—listening, I guess?” he says on his way out the door.

            “Your complaints are pleasanter than Melanie’s transparent attempts on my life,” Elias tells him, and Martin mumbles something he hopes sounds like a sufficient combination of indignation and embarrassment.

            It’s easy to slip from confidences into Martin’s usual easy flow of chatter about anything and everything. He used to use this to cheer up Jon, and that sends a twinge of guilt through him, but he reminds himself this is for Jon as well. A sharper, longer twinge accompanies the realization that Elias is a better conversationalist than Jon. Which isn’t surprising, Martin reminds himself, because Jon is an anxious mess, and Elias is probably some kind of inhuman monster-thing, so presumably he doesn’t get worried. Although hopefully he’s still human enough to respond to distractions.

            Martin doesn’t forget what he’s up to, but he does let himself enjoy babbling about different species of spiders (“did you know Goliath Birdeating spiders actually don’t eat birds much, but they can eat _snakes_?”) or gossiping about the more normal parts of the Institute (“Honestly, the drama in records over someone stealing Amy’s chocolate is more entertaining than _Coronation Street_ ”). Enjoying it means the whole thing’s more convincing anyway.

            He makes sure to be a little bit clumsy a few times. Nothing serious, nothing that will properly annoy Elias, but he does slop the tea over the saucer and on one occasion actually drop the cup near the door. Each time, he apologizes and cleans it up himself. It’s important to set the stage. (“Martin, really,” Elias tells him at one point. “You need to watch where you’re going.”)

            But the thing is, it’s important groundwork. Laying it means that when Martin really does need to distract Elias, it’s not at all unreasonable for him to bringing Elias a cup of tea, or for him to be going on about some silly film he saw the night before, or for him to trip and fall when he gets close to Elias’s chair. Spots of tea speckle across Elias’s trousers, and Martin lands a little more on-target than he actually intended, sprawling across Elias’s lap.

            “Oh—oh, _shit_ , sorry,” Martin gabbles into Elias’s chest, and he lets himself be a little careless as he tries to push himself back upright. _You want this_ , he tells himself firmly, and he _does_ and _doesn’t_ , and it’s only a little bit of a strain to make it not really acting but just being a different version of himself as Elias grips the base of his elbows.

            “And here I thought it was _Jon_ you were interested in,” he says, and Martin’s heart gives a wild, wayward thump, but he manages to flush and look up clumsily from beneath his eyelashes.

            “Um, that’s not, you know, mutually exclusive,” he mutters with somewhat poor grace. (He can’t really tell, anymore, which level of deception he’s on himself, but it’s better that way.) He’s trembling a little, as Elias looks down at him with an intense but still somehow very neutral expression.

            “Something of a violation of workplace protocol, wouldn’t you agree, Martin?” he asks blandly, and Martin’s heart sinks and doesn’t sink and does. He makes a soft noise, then starts to pull back, mumbling an apology (because that’s what he _would_ do), but Elias’s fingers dig into his elbows and stop him. “Are you certain you know what you’re doing?”

            “Of course I do!” Martin says hotly.

            “Well, then,” Elias smirks and yanks him off-balance and forward. Their lips meet, and Martin moans into the kiss and then yelps as Elias slides a commanding hand into his hair and _twists_. Elias, oddly, doesn’t push the kiss all that hard; it’s Martin who ends up slipping his tongue into Elias’s mouth, although as soon as he’s done that, Elias’s tongue is pushing back.

            Martin’s hands land on Elias’s tie, tugging it open, reaching for the buttons on his shirt front. He grinds his hips against Elias, and Elias bucks up in response, making a soft, breathy noise that’s almost enough to get Martin to come in his pants. But he _can’t_ , he tells himself fiercely, he can’t because (he wants Elias to enjoy this) (he has to keep the distraction going.)

            “What’s next?” Elias murmurs throatily in his ear, petting a hand through his hair. Martin chokes out a needy, desperate sort of noise, grabbing Elias’s hand and sucking two fingers into his mouth. “Oh, _very_ good,” Elias tells him delightedly, then gasps sharply as Martin nips at his fingertips. For a few minutes, Martin just concentrates on lathing his tongue around the delicate wrinkles of skin over Elias’s joints and over the fine hairs on the backs of his knuckles. Elias’s breathing gets heavier, and Martin can feel Elias’s erection straining against his thin trousers.

            He’s trembling, terrified, but he has to (wants to?) keep going. He slips a hand down, trying to undo Elias’s trousers one-handed, but it doesn’t quite work, and he has to let Elias’s hand fall from his mouth so he can undo the trousers. Elias hisses through his teeth, bucking against him. It gives Martin an odd, gleeful sense of power.

            “There’s lubricant in the desk if you want it,” Elias tells him. Martin whines, realizes he’s still wearing all his clothes and Elias’s shirt is untucked, trousers undone, and he’s—he’s flushing across his cheekbones. He looks almost _undone_. (Careful, Martin.)

            “Um, y-yeah. Yeah. I’ll just—” He heaves himself upright, and Elias watches him with a strange little half-smile. As promised, the lubricant is in the desk, and Martin retrieves it hastily, then drops his trousers and toes off his socks. Elias eyes him lazily, and Martin shudders at the sensation of being watched, stripped, laid bare. Slowly, he covers two fingers with lube, reaches behind, slips them inside. Martin’s never really been one for putting on a show, and he generally prefers his partners to prepare him, but Elias’s gaze pins him. He could ask (maybe should ask?) but he doesn’t; instead he just slowly moves his own fingers in and out, careful and thorough, taking in little hitching breaths as he does so.

            It takes maybe ten minutes, but eventually he’s ready; Elias is waiting for him, cock hard and red and leaking. Martin’s breath won’t even out; it keeps coming out in little uneven spurts. It gets shorter, more uneven as he awkwardly straddles Elias’s lap and starts to sink down. Thank god Elias’s chair doesn’t have wheels, he thinks, a little hysterically.

            Elias breathes in sharply through his nose and raises a hand to steady him. Martin whines at the feeling of intrusion, of fullness. It’s been a while, and it burns, but he doesn’t care. He wants the sting of sensation to take his mind off of the worries and doubts, to just let this plan go to fulfillment, to—

            Elias _holds_ him, carefully, as he slides up and down. He’s thrusting back but it’s almost gentle, and that’s all wrong. Something’s not right. It’s exquisite, the feeling of Elias’s hands cradling his waist as if he’s something precious, so exquisite that Martin wants to let go, to fall into that feeling, to believe it, but he knows, deep in his bones, that something is wrong. He pauses. “What—what’s—” he says, and Elias sighs deeply and checks his watch, somehow still in command of himself despite the fact that the bottom of his shirt is stained with precome and lubricant, that his trousers are twisted down around the tops of his thighs.

            “Up you get,” he says, lifting Martin off with a strength that surprises him and setting him down—still _gently_ , why does he have to be _gentle_ , this should have _hurt_ and the only thing hurting is Martin’s cock, which is achingly hard. “Thank you, but it’s getting late. I’m afraid I’ll need to stop you now, since I’d rather not actually let Melanie get the drop on me.” He pulls out a handkerchief, wiping himself off and tucking himself back into his trousers with a few quick, deliberate motions.

            Martin’s heart drops icily into his stomach. “You—you—”

            Elias takes his face in a harsh grip. “You are very good at seeing how to get reactions, Martin. Now you need to learn how to see _outcomes_.”

            “How could you?” Martin demands, feeling stripped and sick and, oddly, betrayed.

            Elias’s gaze catches his steadily. “You chose this, Martin,” he says quietly. “At no point did I force you to do anything. Learn to see better and your choices will align more closely with your desires.” He drops Martin’s face and takes the few steps across to the door.

            “I didn’t—” Martin swallows the denial, because he did. He _did_ consent, and with someone else, it might be different, but this is _Elias_. Martin already knows ignorance is no excuse, with him. “Please,” he says. It sounds ridiculous. _Please let Melanie knock you out so we can deal with you_. _(Please don’t leave me.)_

            Elias’s eyes rake him and down. “You do have potential, you know,” he says, and then he steps back and lets the door shut behind him. Still half-naked, still painfully hard, Martin sinks down into the chair and covers his face with his hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still not entirely clear on the Dead Dove: Do Not Eat tag but I wanted to be safe because there is very little *explicit* breakdown or condemnation of Elias's actions in this fic. (FTR emotional abuse and manipulation of someone into sex because you want to teach them a lesson is Not Good.)
> 
> Written for this prompt on the kink meme: https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=39524#cmt39524
> 
> Usual thanks go out to Kyros, lontradiction, and Zomburai.
> 
> "Thimblerig" is one of the varieties of shell games.


End file.
